Three Words
by thefluxcapacitor
Summary: Sherlock knew there would be some kind of joy and solace in a confession.


As soon as Mary closed the door, John's hands went to his temples, and he let out the loudest sigh Sherlock had ever heard.

"Shall I get the scotch?"  
John took a few moments to respond. Then, slowly, he nodded.

John was fairly drunk. His movements were slower, his eyes would stay closed for long amounts of time. He kept licking his lips and running his hand through his hair. Sherlock tried not to watch him, unsuccessfully.  
"She wasn't supposed to be like that," John said. He shook his head, and raised his glass to his mouth. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

Sherlock thought this was a fairly stupid question. John knew exactly what to do with dangerous people. He was one, in fact.  
"Don't look at the USB," Sherlock replied, raising his own glass to his lips. It wasn't what he wanted to say, or even what needed to be said. It just seemed the correct thing to say to John. If Sherlock had his way, he would watch the USB with John on a screen as tall as Big Ben, just to be one hundred percent sure that John would never love Mary again. However, Sherlock also thought about the look on John's face that would most likely surface after a viewing of the USB and it didn't seem worth all that trouble.  
"How could I not look at it?" John's eyes turned to Sherlock's, a hard and desperate glare pouring out of them.  
"How could you? She's your wife. The mother of your child." Sherlock looked away. Saying those words, out loud. The real history and meaning behind them. They hurt much more than he had anticipated.

John finished his scotch and tucked his hand under his chin.  
"My leg bloody hurts," John said. "A lot."  
"Sleep in my bed, that way you won't have to take the stairs," Sherlock replied.  
"And where will you sleep?"  
"I won't."

*

The worst part was, some part of Sherlock had always known, it had just taken John getting married and a murder about to take place for him to figure it out. Sherlock had assumed that it had simply been some type of thankful-for-John-Watson feeling. Friendship, perhaps? Was that what it was? Friendship involved wanting to spend every moment of your life with a person, right? Friendship meant willing to do anything for a person, right? Friendship meant wanting to touch that person, wasn't that right?  
Sherlock realized though, suddenly, while solving a murder, that John was what kept him right. Kept him so happy.

Sherlock watched John from the doorway, his sleeping figure breathing lightly under blankets. How badly he wanted to crawl into those sheets. Sherlock walked into his bedroom and sat on the bed. How could anyone stand it? The wanting. John turned over in his sleep, now facing Sherlock. Sherlock inhaled sharply. Being this close to a sleeping John Watson, it was unbearable. John's eyes opened slowly. "Sherlock?"

"Sorry, I…I was…" Sherlock tried, but nothing came out.  
"You drunk too?"  
"A little."  
"Come to bed," John said.  
Sherlock looked at him, confused.  
"Just come lay down. We'll sleep it off. Can't be worse than my stag night."  
Funny he would say that, Sherlock thought, now that John's happy marriage was hanging loosely by a thread. John closed his eyes again, seeming to fall straight back to sleep.  
Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes, each landing onto the floor with a dignified thud. He then slid the rest of his body onto the bed and laid down on his back, eyes to the ceiling, listening to John breathe rhythmically next to him. Sherlock didn't think he'd ever be able to really fall asleep, not with John lying so close to him. But, eventually the scotch and John's breathing gently lulled him to sleep.

At some point in the night, Sherlock woke up. He felt warmth near him and finally remembered where he was and what was happening. He was on his side, with an arm wrapped around his waist. Sherlock felt a hand on his, and then fingers entwined with his. He didn't breathe for a good minute. John didn't pull his hand away. Sherlock fell back to sleep.

Sherlock woke up first in the morning. The sun wasn't even up yet and John still had an arm around him. Sherlock was unable to move. John scooted closer to him, and Sherlock felt how hard he was.  
"Mary," John whispered in his sleep.  
Sherlock felt some type of quiet, raw panic. He flung his entire body out of the bed in one fluid motion and headed for the bathroom. He began to rip off his clothes before he even closed the door. He turned the shower onto the hottest setting and gripped his hair so tight he thought he'd make his scalp bleed.  
"No, no no no no," he whispered. He finished undressing and got into the shower, trying to rub his skin red. Maybe if he just kept scrubbing, his ridiculous, unrequited crush on John Watson would scrub off too.

"You were very drunk last night," Sherlock commented, avoiding John's eyes. Sherlock was now fully dressed and drinking coffee. He could pretend that nothing happened.  
"I'm…yeah well. Sorry. Just, the circumstances…" John trailed off. "Did we sleep in the same bed last night?"  
"I gave you my bed, your leg hurt," Sherlock replied.  
"Oh, thanks."  
Sherlock made no reply, only continued to flip through pages of some book on animal parts he'd picked up years ago.

*

Sherlock sat in his armchair, plucking at his violin. John sat across from him, watching him with his hands folded in his lap.  
"Did you know about her?" John asked quietly. Sherlock looked up.  
"Obviously not, I got shot."  
"You had absolutely no idea?"  
Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes.  
"I knew she lied, but everyone lies."  
John looked at him sternly and shook his head.  
"I don't lie," he replied.  
"Oh no John, you do lie. Just to yourself and not other people." The words fell out before Sherlock could be bothered to stop them.  
John stood up, walked to Sherlock's chair and placed each hand on the arms.  
"Shut. Up."  
Sherlock stared back at John, John's lips pressed together hard, breathing heavily. Sherlock couldn't move. John then leaned down and pressed his mouth to Sherlock's, hard. Sherlock whimpered into him, and his violin clattered to the ground. Sherlock nearly wrapped his fingers around John's neck, nearly tore his nails into John's back, but stopped himself. _Give John the chance._ Instead, Sherlock slammed his fist into the chair. His mouth however, could not behave so nicely. Sherlock bit down on John's bottom lip, wanting to bleed him dry.  
John pulled away suddenly, taking a step back from the chair.  
"I'm…I'm so sorry," John said, his eyes wide. Sherlock's mouth fell open, trying to speak but unable to find words. John left the room.  
Sherlock leaned back into his chair, letting his arms fall over the sides, categorizing the memory of John's tongue tracing his bottom lip, his mouth burning holes in his throat, just to make sure that he would never forget exactly how John tasted.

Sherlock had fallen asleep in his armchair, and woke with a start to see John standing across the room.  
"That was wrong of me, what I did to you last night. I'm so sorry."  
Sherlock stood up, and swallowed hard.  
"You're in pain. I'm here. You took advantage of me."  
"I did. Why did you let me?"  
Sherlock didn't answer, only opened and closed his mouth.  
"Why would _you_ let me use you? That doesn't make much sense now does it?" John stepped closer to Sherlock, licked his lips, his arms folded behind his back.  
"John, I—" Sherlock began, but was cut off by John's mouth. This time, Sherlock did not hold back. He was fairly sure this was how he was going to die, heart frantically pounding so hard inside his chest that it would finally burst and rip his entire ribcage apart. Sherlock's fingers gripped John's shirt, tugging desperately in an attempt to pull him closer. John's arms slid around Sherlock's waist, his fingers slowly pulling Sherlock's shirt off of him.  
"Oh my God," John whispered against Sherlock's throat. John backed away for a moment, then he shoved Sherlock backwards in the direction of his bedroom. They watched each other for a moment.  
"You want this?" Sherlock asked.  
"Yes."  
Sherlock moved towards John again, wrapped his fingers in his hair and kissed him, all the while walking backwards towards his bedroom.

It was hurried, too quick, a childish type of touching, so eager they were they became like high school kids trying to screw before their parents got home. With John's hand on his cock and his mouth at his collar bone, Sherlock thought he might know what could make his mind stop working completely.

This time when Sherlock woke to John lying next to him, he was not the first one up. Sherlock opened his eyes to see John watching him as he slept. John smiled at him.  
"What do I do with this?"  
Sherlock didn't have an answer. He felt sick, shaking, with a quiet dull fire burning through his chest, tightening the organ underneath his bullet-scarred skin.  
"What do you want?" John asked. To this Sherlock had an answer.  
"I want you to be happy."

Each day that went by, Sherlock slowly forgot about Magnussen. He knew very well that he couldn't, but it was happening anyway. It was happening every time John kissed him, put his hands in his hair, held him down and ground down against him. Sherlock was forgetting everything except how his name sounded falling out of John's mouth. He let John do whatever he wanted to him, it gave him a sick pleasure unlike any of the needles he'd pushed into his skin. He would have stayed sober most of his life if he'd known John would be waiting for him at the end of every day.

Sherlock never allowed himself to forget about the golden band around John's finger, however. Sherlock never allowed himself to forget that John's child was waiting around for him somewhere. Sherlock never forgot that John had whispered _her_ name the first night they'd shared a bed.

After two months Sherlock couldn't take it anymore.  
"You have a wife," he said, and immediately felt guilty. They hadn't mentioned her in weeks.  
"I had you first," John replied.  
Sherlock felt warm. He felt his face burn with a blush he loathed.  
"And you left me," Sherlock whispered. He hated himself for saying it.  
"No, no. Don't you dare do that. You left me first. And she got me over you. And then you came back. And I wasn't over you at all. So don't you dare."  
"You…I'm sorry."  
John walked over to Sherlock, and gripped his jaw in his hand.  
"Yeah, you'd better be."  
John's mouth was on Sherlock's, and John was rough, pushing him against the sofa.

* 

John sat on the couch, his fingers pushing into Sherlock's scalp. Sherlock leaned into it, his head between John's thighs. John whimpered and watched him as Sherlock kissed his cock, and John's pupils became larger, pure adoration leaking out.  
"Oh my God," John whispered. Sherlock let his mouth be fucked happily, placing the memory of John's eyes into a locked drawer in his mind, thinking _this is mine. Even for just now. _

Each time they went to bed together, Sherlock felt a steady hurt in the pit of his somewhere, only knowing that this perfection would run dry at some point. He knew it even when John began to take his wedding ring off and place it on the bedside table. Sherlock knew because John always put it back on.

When they finally did go all the way through with it, Sherlock almost started crying with the pain of the pleasure. John left bruises and scratches across his body, leaving a map of all the places he had been, like a red X saying _I have been there, I experienced this. This is a memory. _After they finished and John had kissed every mark he left, John fell asleep. Sherlock left the bed and walked to the bathroom naked, then stared at the mirror and looked at every mark that John had left on him. One on his neck, one on his shoulder, bruises on his hips where John's hands had squeezed, half-moon shapes across his chest where John's nails had dug into him. Sherlock closed his eyes and remembered every mark. _His his his. _

Sherlock knew he hadn't felt this high in years. He wondered what John would think, if he told him about his days in his small apartment, on the cold tile, sweating out drugs he didn't think he'd ever be able to fully quit.  
"You went right back to drugs after my wedding," John had commented one night. Sherlock hadn't replied, only kissed him to answer his question.  
John was the drug now.

Around three months of John's continued stay at Baker Street, Sherlock decided that John must have been using his unlikely body to numb the pain. Sherlock kept chanting unheard prayers to himself, thinking _just make him leave or make him shackle himself to me. _He always knew the other half would never happen. He liked to dream though.  
Sherlock almost felt as though he'd pried his way back into John's life. Clawed at it until he had shoved his way inside of it. But then he would recall the way John's limbs had come towering over him, how John's mouth had pressed itself against his first. How Sherlock, the innocent, had shoved his hands back down to his sides to just give John a chance to decide if he really wanted to make love to a junkie.

One night John had come onto Sherlock, after eating dinner, he had nearly taken Sherlock right on the table with leftovers still lying out. Then, suddenly, John had stepped away; something he hadn't done since the beginning.  
"What have you done to me?" John asked, eyebrows furrowing together, his lips tightening. Sherlock grew angry, pushing himself up from against the table.  
"What I've done to you? Take responsibility for your actions! What have _you_ done to me?"  
"What was I supposed to do? Ignore this, how badly I wanted this?"  
"You started this, not me. You finish it. This is your decision. She's your wife. You came to me, this is on you."  
"Of course it is. It's always my fault, hm? All I knew was that I wanted you so badly, and now I have you, and I'm supposed to give that up? I don't think so. It isn't fair. I won't let you go away when I've just gotten you back. I've suffered so much because I've wanted you. Do not deny us this. I don't want to be good and hide anymore."

Sherlock knew there would be some kind of joy and solace in a confession. Should he tell the truth and bear the shame? The shame of John knowing exactly those words. Could he live in a world where those words had been said out loud, coming out of his mouth? Would the pain of shame give him a certain power, to at least know that he had finally spoken the truth, the rugged and dirty truth? Perhaps Sherlock wasn't aware of the exact shame he would face. Could he take John's face when he said it? Could he take him not saying it back? He felt sick thinking about it. He wanted to say it, and yet knew he would never say it, all at once a bile growing in his throat instead of words.

"I never want to leave here," John said.  
"You will," Sherlock replied.

Sherlock wanted to wash the taste of John out of him. He wanted to reject him. At least once. To show him that he wasn't obliged to fuck him, that he didn't want to fuck him every moment. But he never did. He did many times however throw fits when John would leave the house to do anything. Even if it was just for the shopping. Sherlock had become disgustingly obsessed. Whenever John wasn't there, he'd pull at his hair, bite his lips raw, pull at his skin, rubbing at the marks that John had left on his skin. This wasn't right, none of this was right.

One particular evening, when John came back from Tesco, Sherlock immediately went to him. John still had paper bags in his hands, almost dropping them all as Sherlock's tongue was shoved in his mouth. John put the shopping down and replied hungrily. Sherlock however would have none of his advances. Sherlock shoved John against the wall, and pinned his shoulders to it. John smiled widely at this.  
"You want me writhing underneath you, don't you?" John asked, his smile taking on a dark quality. "Well fine, then."  
"Shut up," Sherlock said, and covered John's mouth with his own, then slowly trailed kisses down his neck.

Sherlock fucked him on the floor, in the midst of all the shopping. They didn't get all of their clothes off, Sherlock only tore at John's clothing, holding John down underneath him as he slipped inside, and with each thrust he heard John moan, which only egged him on farther.  
"She can't give you this, she can't fuck you like this," Sherlock whispered against John's neck, going harder and steadier. "She'll never screw you this good."  
John bucked and then moaned, and Sherlock wore himself out. Sweat matted Sherlock's curls to his face. John brought a hand up to touch Sherlock's lips.  
"I know," John said, and kissed him.

John was different about things after that. No longer kissing hard, positively shoving his tongue down Sherlock's throat. No longer roughing him up so badly he'd bruise. No longer pulling his hair so hard Sherlock's eyes watered. Instead, John would gently place a hand behind Sherlock's neck, finger his soft curls at the nape, and kiss him lightly. He'd move the back of his hand against Sherlock's jaw, soft but deliberate. He'd smile as he did so. This, Sherlock didn't know what to do with. He went with it though, because it made him feel a sort of weightlessness. No longer did a steady hurt emanate inside him, but instead a kind of ease found its way inside. John would go slow while touching him, would take his time fucking him, would no longer grind down against him but would kiss his way inside. John would get on his knees for Sherlock, staring up at him from the floor with a lovely patience in his eyes.  
This was better and worse all at once.

After a few weeks of this Sherlock couldn't take it. John tried to kiss him, and for the first time Sherlock pulled away.  
"I can't. It's too much. Please."  
Somehow John knew what he meant. John nodded and then averted his eyes.

"Mary's coming to Christmas. You should probably tell her you've forgiven her then."

*

A week before Christmas John came into Sherlock's room again.  
"I know it's supposed to be the right thing to do. I know it's the good thing to do. But do I really have to?" John asked.  
"I expect so."  
John placed his palm on Sherlock's cheek, then leaned in to kiss him.  
"This has been…perfect."  
He got up and left, closing the bedroom door behind him.  
Sherlock let himself go. The hot tears sprang up. He threw a beaker at the wall. If John heard the glass break he didn't acknowledge it.

Sherlock had been completely unprepared for Magnussen. Watching John humiliated, knowing the only way to repair his idiocy. He took the gun from John's side and shot Magnussen at point blank in the head, destroying that beautifully chaotic brain of his. Now Magnussen couldn't threaten John. And, Sherlock would finally leave John alone. Maybe he could just be happy now, with a wife and a child and no freak junkie to keep an eye on.

*

"I haven't got a clue what to say," Sherlock said.  
Except he did. He wanted it to just fall out of his mouth so quickly that he wouldn't be able to stop it. Those three words. "John. There's been something I should say, I've meant to say always and I never have. Since it's not likely we'll ever meet again I might as well say it now."  
It took him a moment. A breath or two. But there was plenty of time in Sherlock's head. He had thought about it too much. No, best not to say it. Why should he say it? So that John could know and then never see him again? Wouldn't that just pain him more? No. Best not to say it. "Sherlock is actually a girl's name."  
And there it was. That smile.  
He shook his hand. They both knew it wasn't the right gesture.

Sherlock got on the plane, and as soon as he sat down he gasped and put his head down in his hands. He let his shoulders shake, he let the moans come out. He knew it'd be the only chance he got. And then he took a deep breath, carefully pulled himself back together, and closed his eyes.  
Then the phone call.  
The plane turned around, in a swift and steady movement. Sherlock put his head in his hands again. He laughed to himself. Thank God he hadn't said it. The three words. Here was the universe again, giving him John Watson.


End file.
